broken on the hay-
tiny skull, fragment
or bone, a little
through the barn
as the world’s great
thuds in the smithy
of time, and
used to the clang
on cooling steel
blur into words
and congeal into this cold
of panic, frozen into calm
Alone and Unafraid
She’s out again in the bright cold, brushing
a layer of light snow from the drive, hands
numbing even in her alpaca gloves. Her
breath steams, hair crinkles with electric
sparks. Winter marks her skin with its dry touch.
Inside she mends the fire, stirring ashes
into glowing sparks. The days are longer now
but all this vapid sun can do is make snow
sparkle on the boughs of oaks and burn her eyes.
His fire roars within his chest, she feels the radiance
through his study walls. Surely his fingers touch
another world, with rocks and colors he can paint
in bitter air. Such uneasy trances, this transport
of eyes. His mouth mumbles over silent words.
Her own visions show fingers laid end to end,
their black nails smooth as agate or magnetite.
She grips his severed head by the coal black hair,
holds it as he whispers prophecies to the icy stars.
She sleeps in her volcanic bed, alone and unafraid
as shifting roof beams crack in thunderous blasts.
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely, and several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).